


two’s a crowd

by puckity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, References to a Teenaged Encounter, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest, That Could Be Read As Sexual or Non-Sexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckity/pseuds/puckity
Summary: The motel clerk had said: “All we’ve got is one California king, take it or leave it.”





	two’s a crowd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystifiedgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystifiedgal/gifts).



> Written for the wonderfully patient [**mystifiedgal**](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystifiedgal), who asked for _"some Wincest bed sharing/cuddling"_ for my long-overdue [birthday prompts](https://puckity.tumblr.com/post/176314371144/happy-birthday-to-me-and-also-you)—how could I resist? ❤
> 
> You can also follow me on [Tumblr](http://puckity.tumblr.com/), if you'd like!

The motel clerk—in his soggy 40s and just looking for an excuse to jack up the price—had said: “All we’ve got is one California king, take it or leave it.”

And they were a little soggy too after pushing 10 hours on the road, so Dean took it. Mostly for Sammy’s sake; his shoulders had been bunched since their mid-afternoon coffee-and-protein-bars stop and he’d been rolling his neck for the last 50 miles of the drive. Dean figured that he deserved a mattress without springs poking out the sides, one that had less lumps than a rock quarry, even if it was just for tonight.

Dean’d take the couch, or the ratty armchair, or maybe the bathtub if it wasn’t one of those soap-scummed ones. Or he could stretch out in Baby’s backseat; it wasn’t that cold of a night anyway.

Not that they’d never shared a bed before—of course they had; they’d grown up on the road. They’d shared beds through most of their overlapped childhoods and into their viney teenage years, well past the point of cramped awkwardness. Stuff that other boys probably tried desperately to keep hidden—wet dreams, morning wood, unconsciously snuggling up to another warm body in the middle of the night—got to be almost mundane between them, to the point that John had started asking for a rollaway or sleeping in the car if there weren’t any better options.

More times than not though, that backfired—the same way that him heading out solo for particularly dangerous hunts and leaving the boys behind backfired: without his sharp, suspicious stares they could do whatever they wanted. That ended up being mostly junk food and stolen pay-per-view, but when the shadows pulled long they’d stand staring at the two queen-size beds, each one waiting for the other to say it.

“Which one do you—”

“Don’t matter to me either—”

“But what if Dad comes back, won’t he want a place to—”

“Yeah, good thinking. I don’t mind if you don’t—”

“I don’t mind—”

And that was that; they’d crawl into bed together and lay with just enough space between them to skim under the line for normal, in case anyone was watching. It went on like that for years—Dean’s feet started poking out under the bottom of the covers, and a couple years later Sam’s joined them. Then Dean started spending more time away from the motels—trolling the dregs of each small town for distractions that he could leave behind in the rearview window—but on those nights he stayed in, the space between them sucked tighter until a knife couldn’t have sliced them apart.

Once, when Sam’d just turned 17, Dean slipped up. Let their arms brush, let their legs press together, let his not-kid brother turn and burrow into him and there was nothing normal about it—not now, not anymore. Maybe there’d never been anything normal about it, but that sealed the deal.

They didn’t talk about it, didn’t mention it, and Dean never slipped up again. But it didn’t matter, in the end, because before he could celebrate another birthday Sam’d walked out and left—them, the family business, _Dean_ —behind.

When Sam came back, Dean didn’t bring it up. But he made sure they always got two beds; if the first motel was out, they’d putter down the road to another _Vacancy_ sign. On the very few occasions that two beds just hadn’t been possible, Dean’d sprung for two rooms—didn’t matter if Sam protested, whined and complained and said it was a waste of their credit card scam money. Didn’t matter if Dean’s room was danker and grimier, or if his bed gave him more knots than a cement floor.

Dean knew it hadn’t been a one-to-one correlation—Sam hadn’t left because of that single slip-up—but he might as well be safe about it. Couldn’t afford not to be.

So standing in the bathroom nook, taking inventory of their California king room, Dean already had his plans: A, B, C, with fallbacks and all-else-fails built in too. There was a big corner chair that looked reasonably stuffed and the tub was wide and sloped and clean; it wasn’t gonna be a problem.

“I call the armchair.” Dean smirked, hands on his hips like he was really trying to sell it. “No trades.”

Sam glanced between him and the low chair and the broad, white-sheeted bed. “We’ve got a lot of doors to knock on tomorrow—what if that messes up your neck?”

Dean shrugged; he’d probably get banged up before the end of the day, so what did it matter? “I’ve made due with a lot worse. That chair’s particularly a Hilton—or at least a Days Inn, right?”

“It’s a big bed.” Sam took a careful step towards him. “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

Dean froze, joints locked in place. Licked his lips, swallowed like Sam’d just blown Pavlov’s fucking whistle. Sam took the cue—the one Dean had always taken, as the biggest and the oldest and the one who was supposed to do the hard things for the both of them—and grabbed Dean light by the wrist. Led them both to the mattress and sat; after a beat, he pulled Dean down too.

“Do you—” Sam asked, too close and not doing anything about it.

“No, Sammy.” Dean murmured, burrowing in like they’d never left. “I don’t mind.”


End file.
